


Pain is just a simple compromise

by Dominatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominatrix/pseuds/Dominatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns to John, he is faced with a truth he would have never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain is just a simple compromise

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/809514) by [Dominatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominatrix/pseuds/Dominatrix). 



> This story's atmosphere is inspired by Paramore's song "Misguided Ghosts".  
> I thought it fit.

“You will stay, won’t you?” John asks Sherlock when he hears the door bell ring and slowly goes to the door.

“I can’t face them all by myself.” His voice sounds panicked, and Sherlock wants to get up from the armchair to pull John in his arms. He knows he won’t do it because he has tried to embrace John once. John had stood there, face buried at Sherlock’s chest, but he didn’t touch him. John never touched him.

He allowed Sherlock’s touches, the shy caress of John’s hand when they went to sleep although Sherlock knew that he would wake up to John screaming his name in his sleep, the small kisses planted on his hair when Sherlock sneaked up behind him.

He allowed them, but he never replied them. Sherlock didn’t dare to ask because he knew it was far more than he deserved that John even allowed him to be around. Sometimes John looked at him as if he was looking right through him, as if Sherlock was made of glass or fog.

 

He had returned a few weeks ago, but John had managed well.

He had opened the door when Sherlock had knocked, and no sign of real surprise had flashed over his face.

“I’m back, John.” Sherlock had prepared to meet whatever reaction John might show. He had been prepared for a punch in the face. He had even calculated that it was more than possible that John would just slam the door shut in front of his face. John didn’t. He just smiled, although Sherlock noticed that it was the smile of a man who has been through far too much in his life. Sherlock knew that most of the wrinkles on John’s forehead were there because of him, that the dark and deep shadows under his soft, brown eyes are there because John can’t sleep at night without waking up screaming, covered in cold sweat, reaching out for Sherlock although deep in his mind he knows he is not there. That moment it didn’t matter at all because John’s voice pierced the silence that had spread out between them.

“I missed you.” There were hints of tears in John’s eyes, and Sherlock had to blink his own tears away so he could see John properly when he returned his smile.

“I know.”It was a bad excuse, maybe the worst, but for John it seemed enough, at least for now.

It seemed to be enough for him that Sherlock was there, talking to him, looking at him, comforting him at night when he wiped the sweat off John’s forehead while lowly telling him that he was there and that John didn’t need to worry because he would stay and that there was nothing be afraid of anymore. John never asked him how he faked his death, what he had done the last three years without him, how he had even managed to breathe without John being around. Sherlock didn’t know himself, and a part of him was glad that John didn’t ask. A part of him wondered why he didn’t claim answers that needed to be given to understand.

“Of course I will stay here” he replies slowly, seemingly matter-of-fact, though his heart was racing. His palms were damp of sweat and clenched into the fabric of the armchair in which he had always been sitting in. When Sherlock had come back he had been surprised that everything had stayed. The violin. The Union Jack pillow. The skull over the fireplace. Everything looked like he had never been gone.

Sherlock licks his lips and swallows hard when John goes to open the door. He hasn’t seen Molly or Lestrade in three years. He can’t say that the news of their engagement did surprise him a lot. Lestrade has been lost in his own head, left behind with a soon-to-be ex-wife and the regrets of a man who believed in Sherlock Holmes until he couldn’t deny the signs showed to him. Molly has been desperately in love with a man who couldn’t ever be the one she needed him to be. They have both been alone. And now they finally have someone.

Molly thinks he’s somewhere in South America. That’s what he had told her before his fake death. In reality he had never left Britain. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought of him being a thousand miles away while John needed him to look after him.

Lestrade still thinks he is dead. Sherlock has watched all press conferences on the cheap TV of an even cheaper motel room in Blackheath. He has never been far away. After a few weeks the news had lost interest in his story. In the end it was just another story about a man who wasn’t what he pretended to be.

He has expected the scream when Molly’s gaze falls on him, but the sound of her scream slowly fading into a low whimper while she covers her mouth with her hands to keep the scream inside makes an icy shiver run down his spine. Lestrade just stares at him in disbelief, and Sherlock knows that there are no good words to say now. He chooses the obvious ones.

“Hello, Lestrade. Hello, Molly.” His voice is low and soft, but it sounds as if he would scream because there is not a single noise in the room except their breaths. Molly sighs lowly and tumbles against the wall where the yellow smiley still reminds Sherlock of a life he once had.

For a while there is silence, and Sherlock almost believes that this situation could work out. That is when John turns to look at Sherlock. His dark eyes meet Sherlock’s, and there is more hurt and confusion in them than anyone could ever imagine. Sherlock just sits there, frozen, and he can’t move a finger; his body feels far too heavy for that.

John looks at Lestrade now and follows his shocked gaze with the eyes. Lestrade’s gaze on his body is almost more than Sherlock can handle, and he knows that this is different from what he believed it to be.

John’s voice is low, almost inaudible, when he whispers into the dead silence.

“You can see him too?”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/809514) by [Dominatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominatrix/pseuds/Dominatrix)




End file.
